


like the bough of a willow tree

by callunavulgari



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fae & Fairies, M/M, Nature Magic, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 20:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19449268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: There’s a human lost in his woods.





	like the bough of a willow tree

**Author's Note:**

> I don't actually remember where I was going with this. I think Connor was going to nurse Hank back to health and then fuck him tenderly in a clearing somewhere. I was listening to a lot of Hozier.

There’s a human lost in his woods.

It’s _loud_ , tromping through the underbrush with all the force of a beast thrice its size, foul curses hissed into the quiet. It stinks of human blood - the coppery bite of iron sits heavy on the air, thick and cloying against Connor’s tongue.

He’s been tracking it for some time now, creeping after it on silent feet, more out of curiosity than any true desire to see it safely through to the other side.

The specimen is an elderly male. It's panting, even the breath in its lungs noisy as it stumbles through the brush, leaving a trail of blood behind it. It is seeping into the soil at the man’s feet, smeared onto the leaves that it carelessly brushes aside. It is on the bark of a willow that it catches itself against.

The woods gulp the lifeblood down, leaves rustling on something like a breathless sigh. It has been too long since he has fed them. The trees are hungry.

The human staggers again, leaving a red handprint smeared against the trunk of a white birch. It curses, weary, head drooping. Connor pauses, crouching low in the underbrush, hidden in the shadow of two tall trees.

The human chuckles softly to itself, and then groans, scrubbing a hand through its hair. Its knuckles are ugly, thick and squarish, the skin scraped raw. Connor considers them as the creature folds in on itself, sliding down the length of the birch to sprawl inelegantly amongst its roots.

Absurdly, Connor finds himself wanting to urge it to keep moving. It is so close to the border, another mile and a half perhaps until the trees begin to thin out enough for light to penetrate the dense branches.

It is still cursing quietly to itself, eyes closed, chest heaving. There is fresh blood on its face, drying sticky and red across its left cheek, congealing in its beard.

After a long moment, the human sighs and goes still. It chuckles again, bitter and hopeless.

“Almost made it,” it snorts, and winces, tightening an arm around its ribs.

Above it, the birch has gone silent and still, leaves trembling with anticipation. Trees are good at waiting, and the human seems ready to fall asleep any minute.

Connor watches the human breathe quietly for a moment longer, marveling at the way its chest heaves, at the play of its fingers across a kneecap. He has seen humans before. Not this body perhaps, which is still narrow as a sapling, new enough to feel the press of time - but he has the memories of those who came before him, the fae who were his brothers and sisters, whose thoughts and feelings live on in the back of his head.

Connor is new. But he is also very, very old.

He makes his decision as the human tips its head back against the tree, revealing the vulnerable curve of its throat. The branches above twitch overhead, stretching out towards the sad creature, slower than the human eye could see.

“You shouldn’t rest here,” Connor says, stepping out of the shadows.

The human startles, eyes flaring wide, head jerking towards Connor’s voice. They settle on him, squinting through the dark. Human eyesight is a dull, pitiful thing, so Connor drifts nearer, footfalls soft on the earth.

When he’s close enough to see, the human scowls at him.

“Who the hell are you?” it asks, voice gruff.

“A guardian,” Connor tells him.

He lays a hand across the bloody handprint the human had left behind, and presses, as if he can make it disappear. The birch shudders at his touch, and slowly, reluctantly, draws its branches away.

“A guardian?” the human repeats, its brow furrowed.

“Yes,” Connor says. “This is my forest.”

He blinks, patting the tree one last time before drawing away. He crouches down, until he’s on the human’s level.

Connor regards him steadily.

The human seems to be slightly younger than Connor had thought at first glance. The hair on its head is as gray as its beard, long and matted, but thick. Healthy,even. Its face is slightly withered with age, but there’s a strength there, in the jut of its chin and the defiant twist to its lips.

This human did not come here to die.

“You shouldn’t rest here,” Connor tells him again. “You’re very close to the border. Why did you stop?”

The human gawks at him, it’s blue eyes wide with… disbelief, perhaps. It isn’t wonder. Maybe surprise. Connor is finding it difficult to grasp the nuances of human emotion. His predecessor’s had made it seem easy.

The human looks from him to its various injuries with such pointed disdain that Connor cannot fail to grasp the point.

“Ah,” he says. “Yes. You’re hurt.”

He chews on his lip for a moment, considering.

“All right,” he says at last. “Come with me.”

The human sputters at him when Connor loops an arm around its waist. It hisses with displeasure, attempting to reel away from him. In response, Connor tightens his grip.

“Put me down,” the human insists loudly, breath hot and sour against Connor’s face. It is a veritable assault on the senses, the noise and the reek of blood and sweat so close. Grimly, Connor hangs on and drags it protesting a few paces, until he is forced to stop when the human grabs hold of a nearby tree.

Connor gives the creature a look of firm disapproval and pries its fingers loose.

“Look, you fucking-” it starts, face flushing red with anger, chest puffing up. Connor places a finger over its lips, cutting off the protest before it can begin.

“You will not survive the night without my help,” Connor tells the human simply. “Would you like me to leave you to die?”

The human blinks at him, eyes still sharp and defiant. “How do I know that you’re not planning on killing me? That’s how this works, isn’t it? One of your kind lures us hapless mortals somewhere dark and makes sure we’re never seen again.”

“That is ordinarily how it goes,” Connor says agreeably.

The human stares at him, mouth agape. “And you’re just… what? A good samaritan?”

“I am… simply curious.”

It does not need to know that the curious part is that Connor does not _want_ to see it die.

The human laughs, a sharp crack of a sound that makes Connor’s eardrums ache.

“Yeah, all right,” it says. “Good to know my life depends on some _thing’s_ charity. That’s just. Great.”

Connor hitches the human up against him and takes a step. Then another. It is remarkably slow going.

“My name is Connor,” he says some minutes later. The word _thing_ still echoes in his ears.

“Huh?” the human asks, tilting its head to look at him.

Connor raises his eyebrows.

“My name,” he says again. “It’s Connor. I am not a thing.”

“Oh,” the human says, and subsides into a silence that lasts even longer than the one before it. Connor can hear the stream ahead of them. Not far.

“I’m Hank.”

Connor blinks and finds the human staring at him again. It raises an eyebrow in slow, careful mockery of Connor, and shrugs. “I’m not a thing either.”


End file.
